Her Letters
by munkinette
Summary: Lady Belle teaches Rumplestiltskin the spinner to read (between the lines).


"By the Gods, this has to be the hardest thing I've ever had to do", Rumplestiltskin mutters to himself as he sinks into his unsteady chair, grabbing his even shoddier workbench with both hands lest his ankle decides to play a trick on him and send him tumbling down onto the shack's cold, muggy floor.

Last night had been particularly cold, harsh on his aching joints, so Rumplestiltskin awoke with the first rays of dawn to bask in the infinitesimal warmth they managed to carry through the cottage's small, matted windows. He sighs, absently running his fingers though his sleep-tousled hair, and eyes the open book before him dejectedly. Hard as this is, he knows there's no other way out. He has to do this. Today he has to say goodbye to Belle.

Lady Belle, that is, for his wondrous mentor is a princess, and the most beautiful, kind-hearted and wise one at that. And Rumplestiltskin might not be her smartest pupil, but of one thing he is certain: that a fine lady like herself belongs at the court, at the side of the fearless king she has for a father, betrothed to a valiant, handsome knight who could protect her and her kingdom at all costs. He can see her as clear as day, clad in only the finest of garments, served upon by maids and always, always surrounded by those rare, precious books that she so adores, a brilliant smile lighting up on her beautiful face. The people would praise Lady Belle's wisdom, her kindness and her grace, and, in time, she'd become the most beloved queen their land has ever had. Her people will adore her just as much as he does, of that Rumplestiltskin is sure.

It is how things are supposed to be, how they've been meant to be from the beginning of time, and nurturing foolish thoughts of a different future, one where she and him were still together as friends or... more, would be terribly unfair to her and particularly thick on his part. A lame spinner whose sole possessions in life are a ramshackle of a hut with rattling windows and floors covered in dust, two sheep older than life itself, an injured ankle and a coward's trembling heart has no business anywhere near someone as precious as Belle.

Oh, and she is lovely, so out of-this-world lovely that falling in love with her, more and more with each passing day, with each syllable that has transformed, under her watchful guidance, from merely a graceful sound on her lips to shaky lines with circles on top on his crumbled papers, has been as painful as it has been easy. She's been kind, too kind to bestow her knowledge and patience upon a lowly spinner, but Rumplestiltskin has learned a long, long time ago that all good things come to an end, and so must his and Belle's time together. Even his treacherous thick skull has surrendered to her charms and by now he is well and truly mastering his letters. There's no reason for her to come see him anymore...

Lady Belle has done good by him, and it is now time that he does right by her, for even though she still seems content here with him, with his tepid tea and scratchy blankets, with this little arrangement of theirs of exchanging words and smiles, how could she _truly_ be? No, better to set her free and save her from himself. Better yet, save her from herself, from her disposition of putting everyone else's well-being before her own. He should be nothing but an anomaly in her life, a brief and peculiar occurrence. Because if he is not that, if he is more, if she _stays_… well, "poverty", "disgraced", "shame", "shunned" and "darkness" are words he never cares to learn to spell from her lips.

The little favour he had done her all those months ago, restoring her thoroughly damaged book to its former glory with his nimble spinner hands and vile-smelling clay, has been well and truly repaid by now. In truth, it has been from the moment she beamed at him upon laying her eyes on the finished thing, but she couldn't have known that, and he didn't tell her.

"_Les fleurs du bien_," she'd said then, and he'd gaped at her. "_The name of my book_," she'd explained. He could never speak French, he remembers stammering, but Lady Belle had insisted with a gentle hand upon his shoulder that she could at least try to repay his kindness by teaching him the letters, and he'd acquiesced, love-struck fool that he was.

And so, to his utter amazement, Belle had taken to visiting his tiny house at the outskirts of town. Every day, no matter the deluge outside or that he was close to being snowed in, at noon she would knock upon his shabby front door, leave her mud-soiled boots by it - though he'd always implore her not to do so -, chirp something about how she's missed his blend of tea and inquire in that lilting tone of hers "_Have you practiced, Rumple?_", then plop down next to him on his careworn blanket by the fireplace, offering him a smile brighter and warmer than the roaring fire itself. He'd barely have time to gather his wits before she'd put a tiny piece of coal in his hand and settle an open book in her lap.

All winter they had spent this way, him clumsily writing down the alphabet and following Belle's fingers as they chased curious letters from one page to another, until he was finally able to read to her somewhat fluently. Her smell now lingered in the worn-out rag he called blanket, the sound of her laughter resounding from every once-silent corner of his house, her smiles forever imprinted in his mind to recall upon every time he closed his eyes to sleep. Strange how the first time he truly felt at home here in his house was now when it was impregnated with her, a complete stranger. No, not a stranger at all. _Belle_.

By the time Spring had come, they had taken to walking through the forest, where they would go about making little letters, no more than a few inches wide, out of twigs and straws. Belle would think of a letter, he of another, and as each made his own, they'd name as many words as they could think of starting with those letters. Belle's first pick was "B", and he thought it was for "Belle", but he soon realized it was for "book" and "brave". He'd chosen "S" for "sheep" and "straw", "W" for "wheel", "wool" and "warm". One time he'd picked "L", "Q" and "M", for "lovely", "qute" and "merry", and he'd blushed furiously when Belle pointed out that "cute" was spelled with a "C" and not a "Q".

All their handmade letters ended up at his house, occupying a treasured place on his worktable, entwined with his balls of wool, string and yarn. It feels only natural now, after hearing Belle's voice so many times say "_Reading is like spinning, Rumple. It requires patience. One letter at a time, one turn of the wheel_," as she settles her tiny hand, warm and comforting, over his cold, shaking fingers. "_We're in no hurry. It's the adventure to get there that matters. No hurry at all…_"

But now their adventure must come to an end, Rumplestiltskin sighs as he idly fingers the letters they'd made during their last encounter. Belle had insisted on picking all of them, and they'd worked together to finish until a heavy rain started and they hurried home as fast as his leg allowed. She had meticulously piled up their work, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek that left him befuddled and as lost for words as he had been during their first encounter, and scurried out the door.

And now a new morning has come, and soon she will be here, and he will have to say goodbye to her. Forever. And then all he'll have of her will be these tiny letters scattered all over his table, and the words they could form. All the words he'd shared with her. There'll be no more new words for him, not ever again. As Rumplestiltskin's eyes well up with tears, his fingers play mindlessly with Belle's letters, and it isn't until he blinks and stares, dumbfounded, that he notices the words he has spelled:

_"Rumple, lowe conquers all. __  
__ Belle"_

This must be a mere coincidence, Rumplestiltskin thinks, his heart pounding, because Belle couldn't have possibly planned to carve all these letters to tell him that… No, the thought itself is unthinkable, and yet…

Warmth spreads inside Rumplestiltskin's chest. Maybe… maybe he needs a couple more lessons. Just to be sure that he knows how to spell "love" right. Maybe he shouldn't turn Belle away... It's an entirely foolish notion, he knows. But after all Rumplestiltskin is, most certainly, a fool.


End file.
